Breath Like Water Page 8

I didn’t need to worry about what to say to Harry after last night, because I don’t get to talk to him during practice. Dave has returned to GAC, but his back must still be bothering him because he’s in a fouler mood than normal.

  In an unusual move, he and Beth split the elites between them, each coaching two lanes of swimmers with entirely different workouts. I don’t realize how badly I want to train with Beth today until Dave assigns me to one of his lanes.

  It doesn’t escape my notice that Dave’s group is mostly boys, and Beth has only girls. A few weeks ago, I’d have been beaming with pride at being one of the few female swimmers Dave selected for himself, but now I feel disappointed.

  Predictably, the workout Dave puts us through is merciless. I love a hard practice—the more challenging, the better—and I throw myself into it. I tell myself I’m trying to impress Dave, to remind him why I’m still worth training, but halfway through a particularly difficult set I find myself searching the next lane for Harry, to see if he’s watching me, and I realize my efforts are more for him than my coach.

  Dave gave up on me a long time ago. He hardly looks at me and doesn’t speak to me much during the three hours I’m in the pool. I wonder why he even chose to have me in his lanes today.

  Beth does talk to me—once—during a long, brutal IM set in the second half of practice. She says, “Your backstroke needs work.”

  I glare at her, panting hard. This drill allows for very little rest, and I’m irritated she’s wasting my precious break with feedback I didn’t ask for when she didn’t even bother to put me in her lanes.

  “You can’t distinguish yourself in the IM with a weak backstroke,” she adds.

  I turn away from Beth and push off from the wall, pouring my frustration into my swim. If she wanted to coach me, she should’ve fought to have me in her group, but she didn’t. She can save her criticism for someone else, as far as I’m concerned. I get enough from Dave as it is.

  * * *

  A couple days later, I wait outside the boys’ locker room after practice. I dressed quicker than I ever have before to make it out ahead of Harry, so I could grab him before he takes off for the night. I need to ask him for a favor.

  My pulse drums in my throat. We haven’t talked much since he drove me home, just a few quick chats in the water between sets. Which isn’t to say people haven’t noticed.

  Tonight, Dave put us through a grueling set of lungbusters—one full pool length underwater and a freestyle sprint back on a near-impossible interval, over and over until you’re worn out. Harry’s always trying to get out of lungbusters. They’re his least favorite set. I know that because we were in adjacent lanes during practice again, and he flat out told me so.

  “Why?” I panted. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. I was so relieved things weren’t weird between us. Everything seemed normal, like that awkward hug never happened.

  Harry grimaced. “Being underwater that long makes me feel like I’ve been buried alive. I don’t think I’d like to drown.”

  “I don’t think anybody would like to drown,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I mean, of all the ways to go...”

  “It’s a good thing you can swim, then,” I said.

  “Even strong swimmers can drown,” he replied.

  “Ramos! Matthews! What the hell are you doing over there?” Dave loomed over us. “Is the workout getting in the way of your conversation?”

  “No, sorry,” I said at the same time Harry muttered, “Kinda.”

  Dave scowled at Harry and pointed to the pace clock. “You missed your interval.”

  I still had a few precious seconds on mine, and Dave took the opportunity, with Harry kicking along the length of the pool, to lecture me.

  “You’ve been hanging out with that Matthews kid,” he said.

  “Not really.” I shook my head to clear some water out of my ears. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d find someone else to lecture.

  “I don’t like his attitude,” Dave said. “And the last thing you need is something to draw your focus away. I’m looking out for you.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, getting ready to push off from the wall.

  “You’ll thank me,” he said, right before I went underwater.

  Dave controls a huge part of my life; he doesn’t get to choose my friends, too. But I’m not here, waiting for Harry, out of some childish attempt to defy him. This is about my swimming.

  When Harry emerges from the locker room, he’s with Avik Kapali, another sophomore who started GAC the same season as me and Nina. They’re laughing and shoving each other playfully as they walk through the doorway. I have half a mind to bolt, but when Harry notices me, I freeze. His smile fades for a second, then returns even brighter than before.

  “Susie,” he says. “What’s up? Do you need a ride?”

  “No, um...”

  On cue, every word in my brain disintegrates. What did I want again? Harry and Avik stare at me.

  “I had something I wanted to ask you,” I mumble.

  Harry claps Avik on the back. “See you tomorrow, man.”

  “Later,” Avik says, taking off.

  “So...what was it you wanted to ask me?” Harry asks after we stand there for a few silent seconds, smiling at each other.

  “Oh! Yeah.” I take a deep breath and gather my courage. It’s never been easy for me to ask for help. “I want your advice on my backstroke. It needs work.”

  Harry nudges my shoulder with his. “That’s not a question.”

  My face falls. “You think so, too?”

  “No, I mean, you said you had something to ask me but ‘I need your advice on my backstroke’ is a statement,” Harry says with a laugh. “Questions sound more like this? Usually people’s voices get higher at the end?”

  I punch his arm. He rubs his shoulder and chuckles. I wish he wouldn’t laugh. Can’t he see how hard this is for me?

  “I need to work on my backstroke, and it’s your specialty, so I was wondering if you would consider watching me after practice one day and giving me some pointers. I bet Beth wouldn’t mind staying late again considering she’s the one who said I needed some help, so—”

  I cut myself off to catch my breath. My lung capacity is pretty good, but not when he’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me.

  He does not want to kiss you, I scold myself savagely. He probably thinks you’re ridiculous.

  “Not sure there was a question in there, either,” Harry says. “But I’m happy to give you some pointers on your backstroke.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking a much-needed sip from my water bottle.

  “Let’s not do it after practice, though. We’ll both be too tired. How about Sunday?”

  “This Sunday?” Harry nods. “You want to spend your day off from swimming in the pool?”

  “I want to spend my day off from swimming with you. If that has to happen in a pool, let’s just say I’m not surprised,” Harry says.

  I look down at my shoes, too flustered to meet his eyes.

  “Besides, I doubt it’ll take the whole day. You’re not a guppy who needs lessons.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I am,” I tell him. Now that Dave’s returned and I’ve stopped training with Beth, I’m back to feeling heavy and slow in the water.

  “You’re not,” Harry insists. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride home?”

  I shake my head. “My dad’s waiting for me in the parking lot.”

  “Cool. See you Sunday, Susie,” he says, walking backward down the hallway so he can continue to grin at me as he leaves.

  * * *

  On Sunday, Harry shows up at my house a little before six-thirty a.m. He texted last night to warn me he’d be here early, but I thought he was exaggerating. When I answer the door, I’m still in my pajama pants and a GAC T-shirt from a co
uple of years ago, though I did have the good sense to put on a bra.

  “Suit up,” Harry says cheerfully, like it’s not the butt-crack of dawn on our one day off. “We’ve got work to do.”

  He’s not dressed like we’re going to work out. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a black fleece, a blue buffalo plaid shirt that brings out his eyes, and a Cubs hat with a frayed bill and sweat stains along the rim. The sight of him does funny things to my nether regions. I guess when you spend most of your time in a bathing suit, seeing people with clothes on can sometimes be sexier.

  “What’s that?” I ask, squinting at the plastic bag he’s carrying through bleary eyes.

  “Energy bars and Gatorade,” he tells me. “Go get ready, Susie. I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Um,” I say hesitantly. “No, you won’t. My parents want to meet you. They have this policy of not letting me get into a car with someone they don’t know.”

  Mom and Dad were not pleased when they found out Harry drove me home from practice the other day. When I told them we were going out this morning, they insisted he come in and sit down for Dad’s patented “responsible driver” lecture.

  Harry checks his phone. “It’s almost six-thirty,” he says. “I don’t think they have time to get to know me. That could take months.”

  I roll my eyes and grab his hand, pulling him into the house.

  “This’ll only take a second,” I promise, relishing the feeling of his skin against mine. He doesn’t pull away, so it’s almost like we’re holding hands for real. I really need to stop thinking like this.

  Mom and Dad are both early risers, even on weekends; years of driving me to morning practice seem to have permanently reset their circadian rhythms. They’re at the kitchen table, nursing cups of lukewarm coffee and reading the newspaper. I love that they sit together and pass the sections back and forth, even though they could obviously get all the same articles on their phones. It’s a bonding thing, one of the small rituals of their marriage, and the dependability of it makes me feel as though, no matter what those pages have to say about things going on in the world, everything’s going to be okay.

  My parents may have glimpsed Harry at meets before, but I haven’t talked about him much at home. Dad questions him sternly about how long he’s had his license and what kind of car he drives, how well he maintains it and does Harry know that when I’m in the passenger seat he’s ferrying some of the most precious cargo on earth? It’s so embarrassing. Harry passes the exam, charming them both without breaking a sweat, a feat few of my and Nina’s friends have managed to achieve.

  “Where are we going?” I ask ten minutes later when he takes the wrong turn out of my subdivision. “School’s the other way.”

  “There’s a Masters team that uses the pool every Sunday morning,” he explains. “They’re total lane hogs. But the JCC pool has free swim every morning five to nine. It’ll be fine.”

  “I didn’t know you were Jewish,” I say, adding that little nugget to the pile of Harry Facts I’ve been collecting. He’s also left-handed, lactose intolerant and—apparently—a Cubs fan.

  “I’m not,” he says. “Bruce is—my stepdad. But you don’t need to be Jewish to have a JCC membership. It’s open to everybody.”

  “Oh, got it,” I say, eyeing the baseball cap. I’ve never seen him wear one before. It makes him look younger somehow, or maybe it reminds me that despite how grown up he looks, he’s still a boy.

  “What? You don’t like the hat?” He tugs on it self-consciously. I turn away, embarrassed to be caught staring, and at the same time pleased that he cares what I think.

  “Might be time for a new one,” I say gently. The thing is clearly falling to pieces.

  “I love this hat,” he whimpers.

  “Yes, but do you wash it?”

  He shakes his head in dismay. “I can’t believe this. My stepdad gave me this hat. It’s a family heirloom, passed down through generations of Matthewses. Well, two generations, but still. It’s perfectly worn in.”

  “Sure looks like it.”

  Harry yanks the cap off with a growl and plops it on my head.

  “There,” he says. “Maybe you need to wear it to understand the magic.”

  “How dare you,” I say, tossing it back at him with a theatrical gasp. “I am a White Sox fan.”

  “What?” Harry shouts. “Why?”

  I shrug. “My parents are from the South Side. They grew up next door to each other in South Lawndale. Loyalties die hard.”

  Harry smiles. “Then I guess I can forgive this atrocious lapse in judgment. Nobody’s perfect, but your mom and dad seem pretty great.”

  “They do?” I thought he might find Dad’s overprotectiveness annoying.

  “Yeah. You said they were neighbors growing up? How long have they been together?”

  “Since they were in high school,” I tell him. There’s something about how my parents act around each other, the seamless way they move through spaces together and finish each other’s thoughts midsentence, that gives you the sense they’ve been partners for a very long time.

  “And they say young love can’t last,” Harry says.

  “My parents would tell you it wasn’t easy. They made a lot of sacrifices to stay together.”

  “Well, I’m glad they did.”

  I laugh. “Me too. Obviously.”

  * * *

  The pool at the Jewish community center is designed to look like a Roman bath, with fluted columns and elaborate mosaics of mythological sea creatures decorating the walls. Harry shows them off like he made them himself, and I realize this isn’t his first time swimming here.

  Aside from a few old folks doing a leisurely crawl in the outer lanes, Harry and I have the place to ourselves. Harry has me swim a few laps of backstroke for observation.

  “Okay, I see what’s happening,” he says, crouching near the lip of the pool. “Your head’s a little too far forward and it’s messing up your streamline. And when you get tired, your left arm drifts and it increases your stroke per minute. Each pull becomes less powerful. That’s your sore shoulder, right?”

  I nod. It’s been giving me trouble for almost a year. I’m surprised he’s noticed, but I guess I shouldn’t be. I spend a lot of time in the pool watching him. Maybe he’s been watching me, too.

  Sometimes it’s difficult to concentrate on much except how badly I want to touch him. I love his body as much as I hate my own—his shoulders and his arms, the broad expanse of his back and the way the muscles of his lower abdomen cut a V-shape that disappears below the waist of his suit. He’s beautiful, really, and I can’t get enough of the sight of him. I always want to be near him. It makes me feel out of control. And I shouldn’t be lusting after my friend when I know he wants more, but I don’t know how to stop feeling it.

  The first step is probably to stop staring at him so much. I lower my eyes and fiddle with my swim cap to have something to concentrate on.

  “How come you always wear jammers to practice?” I ask him. It never struck me as odd that Harry practices in the long, formfitting suits most guys use only in competition, the ones that look more like bike shorts than Speedos. Then I heard Nash snickering about it the other day and I started to wonder. He’s wearing them again today.

  I expect him to laugh the question off, but he tenses up, his expression darkening.

  “I guess I just prefer them,” he says in a tone that tells me I shouldn’t press him further. “Concentrate on making your bicep brush your ear during recovery. That should help.”

  I worry I’ve upset him, but during the time it takes for me to get down the pool and back, his sunny mood returns and it’s like I never asked. After about an hour spent on adjusting my form and doing short drills, we drive to a nearby diner for breakfast. I insist on paying as a thank-you to Harry.

  “All r
ight,” he says, attacking his omelet with a fork. “But I’m still not sure why you thought you needed my help.”

  “Clearly I did or you wouldn’t have found so much to correct.”

  I heap scrambled eggs onto a piece of wheat toast and take a careful bite. It’s chilly outside, so Harry lent me his fleece to wear. I don’t want to dump food down the front of it.

  “Yeah, sure, but why the extra practice? Why the backstroke?”

  “Beth told me mine needed work,” I say. “She thinks I suck.”

  Harry laughs. “She can’t think you suck, because you don’t suck.”

  “Says you,” I reply.

  “Do you trust her? Does she seem to know what she’s doing?”

  “When she gives me advice, it usually pays off,” I admit. I hesitate, then say, “I think I’d be better off swimming for her instead of Dave.”

  “I was wondering why you weren’t in her training group,” Harry says. “When she was subbing for Dave, you seemed to get a lot out of it. You seemed happier.”

  I consider this for a moment. “I guess I was. It’s been a long time since swimming made me happy.”

  Harry gazes at me in silence. I consider not telling him what I said to Beth when she first started—what if he thinks it was petty? But the idea of confessing brings a wave of anticipatory relief.

  “I told her I didn’t want to train with her,” I say, feeling ashamed. I always say I’ll do anything for my swimming, make any sacrifice, and yet here I am, clinging desperately to the last tattered remnants of my pride. It’s pathetic.

  “That explains it,” he says. “But why?”

  “Because I thought it would mean something if I switched coaches. Like I’m not good enough to swim for Dave anymore. That’s what people would think.”

  “But don’t you care more about your swimming than what people might think?” Harry asks. I nod. “And how much does what other people think matter, anyway?”

  “What some people think matters. I care what college scouts think. I care what USA Swimming thinks. What potential sponsors might think, if I ever get that far,” I say. “But I get your point.”